Gilded Cages

I have a grey African parrot
whom I keep in an expensive cage
especially designed for him.
His wings clipped and feathers trimmed,
clean and neat, well-tended to.

But when I look into his eyes,
woeful, doleful eyes
they seem to tell me
a gilded cage is still a cage, a prison.
And wings which are clipped are not wings at all,
they are a handicap, a disfigured reality.
What you think are incomprehensible squeals are in fact painful litanies.
The birds that fly majestically by my cage, whisper to me,” Why soulful cries?
You are a domestic animal, a pet, this is your destiny.”
But then why does every breath I take, seem like a burdensome task?
And each heartbeat yearn for escape?
Why do my wings forget that they are clipped and prepare for flight?

How do I tell you, dear parrot
the sorrow I see in your eyes, is mirrored in mine.
You live in your gilded cage and I in mine.
The bars may seem fragile but our arms are more fragile,
We cannot tear them apart.
The locks may seem weak but our hands are weaker, we cannot turn the key.
Your painful litanies are your incomprehensible squeals and screams, and mine are these heart wrenching words of poetry.
and mine are these heart wrenching words of poetry.